


The Mysterious Affair at Storm's End

by ariel2me



Series: Stannis/Asha AUs [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, CHRISTIE Agatha - Works, Game of Thrones (TV), Miss Marple - Agatha Christie, The Murder at the Vicarage - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:03:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1860738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The arrival of retired army colonel Stannis Baratheon and his wife Asha was the latest sensation in the sleepy and quiet village of St. Mary Mead. When the body of a young man was found in their bed, naked, the mysterious couple quickly became the prime suspects in the murder. Miss Marple could be their last hope for clearing their name and finding the real killer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mysterious Affair at Storm's End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deisegal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deisegal/gifts).



“My cousin knew his people,” Mrs. Price-Ridley confided to the assembled ladies in the vicarage drawing room. She paused to take another bite of strawberry scone. “Military family. The father served in India, as did Colonel Baratheon himself before the war.”

“What about her people?” Asked Miss Wetherby, carefully balancing a teacup with her left hand while her right hand snatched another slice of tea-cake.

“ _Quite_ a mystery, apparently,” Mrs. Price-Ridley said, casting meaningful glances to the other occupants of the room. “No one seems to know where her people came from. They could be pirates at high sea for all we know.”

Griselda Clement, the vicar’s much younger wife, suppressed an impatient sigh. Tea and scandal at the vicarage drawing room was part of her duty as the vicar’s wife, but there were times when her patience was very much tested. “Surely there’s nothing very mysterious about Mrs. Baratheon. She struck me as very much a conventional lady,” said Griselda, substituting ‘ _conventional_ ’ for the real word in her mind – ‘ _dull_.’

Three elderly faces turned to Griselda with identical looks of pity. _You poor naïve child_ , they seemed to be saying.

“I think Mrs. Baratheon has perhaps seen much more of life than we might think at first glance,” Miss Marple said with a kindly smile.

“Much, much more,” agreed Mrs. Price-Ridley, nodding heavily. “Quite a lot more than a woman in her position should, I would say.”

This time, Griselda _did_ lose her patience, along with her temper. “Just because she is attractive and her husband is quite a bit older than she is –“

Three voices rose at once as they remembered that the vicar had also married an attractive woman quite a bit younger than he was. “Oh I didn’t mean _that_ , of course,” protested Mrs. Price-Ridley.

Not surprisingly, Griselda doubted Mrs. Price-Ridley’s vehement protestation.

“There are other ways to be worldly other than … well, other than the _usual_ way.” Here Miss Marple turned pink, the very picture of a blushing old maid. She changed the topic of conversation to something less contentious. “They have changed the name of the house, I hear.”

“What are they calling the place now?” Mrs. Price-Ridley asked. The house recently bought by Colonel and Mrs. Baratheon had been called Lemontree Lodge by its previous owner. Dennis, the vicar’s nephew, had laughed and said that the Baratheons should have kept the name since Colonel Baratheon’s persistently sour expression made him look like a man who spent most of his time sucking on a lemon.

“Storm’s End is the new name,” announced Griselda. “Mrs. Baratheon told me it was the name of Colonel Baratheon’s childhood home. It is gone now, of course.”

Three heads nodded in unison. The war had changed so many things. Lost homes and lost inheritances, regrettable as it was, was quite a commonplace occurrence in these times.

Mrs. Baratheon had also said to Griselda, “ _Call me Asha, please_ ,” with what seemed like a genuine smile. She had been friendly enough with Griselda, but there was something very intimidating about her take-charge, no-nonsense manner that made Griselda doubt that she would ever have the courage to call the woman by her first name, let alone be on intimate terms with her.

“So you _have_ spoken to them after all, Mrs. Clement. I don’t think I have seen them at church on any Sunday since they arrived.” Well, of course Mrs. Price-Ridley had checked. Griselda was not surprised in the least. When Griselda missed church a few Sundays ago because little David was teething and making a lot of fuss, Mrs. Price-Ridley made it a point to drop by the vicarage, supposedly to let Griselda know that the vicar had preached a “ _most interesting sermon_ ” that morning.

“I’ve spoken to _her_ , but not to him,” Griselda replied. “Mrs. Baratheon invited me to stay for lunch when I came to their house to collect donation for the Widows and Orphans Fund. Colonel Baratheon was not at home.”

Miss Wetherby’s eyes widened. “You have actually seen the inside of the house, Mrs. Clement? Oh do tell us what it is like. They seem like such an oddly-matched couple. I really wonder what the inside of that house look like. Why, they brought their own servants with them from London, didn’t even hire a local girl to do the more rough cleaning …”

And obviously without any locals working in the Baratheon’s house, St. Mary Mead lost the chance for news/gossips to spread.

“Well, it was such a nice day that Mrs. Baratheon decided we should have lunch in the garden,” Griselda said.

“Hmmph,” harrumphed Mrs. Price-Ridley.

“Well, well,” said Miss Wetherby.

“Interesting,” said Miss Marple.

“So she would not invite even the vicar’s wife into the house. I wonder why,” said Mrs. Price-Ridley, in a tone of voice that made it clear to everyone listening that she did not wonder at all – _she knew_.

“I don’t think Mrs. Baratheon is trying to hide anything,” Griselda protested. “She was quite open about any number of things. She told me that Colonel Baratheon was a widower when she met him. And he has a daughter studying at a university, somewhere up north, I can’t remember where. She did mention the name of the place.”

“But did she tell you anything about herself before she married the Colonel?” Mrs. Price-Ridley pressed on.

Griselda wracked her brain trying to recall something, anything. “She worked for some government department or other during the war. In the secretarial pool,” Griselda said triumphantly, before she was seized by doubts. “Or was it the typist pool?”

“How _very_ informative,” remarked Mrs. Price-Ridley.

Griselda flushed. “I’m afraid my memory is not very reliable, even at the best of times,” she said apologetically.

“Oh I don’t think your memory is at fault, Mrs. Clement. I expect Mrs. Baratheon was being vague on purpose,” Miss Marple said. “Yes, I expect she has to, the poor dear.”

“ _Poor dear_? Why _poor dear_? If they’re hiding something, why should we feel sorry for them?” Mrs. Price-Ridley demanded. “If you have lived a life completely without sin, there is _nothing_ , nothing at all you have to hide from anyone.”

“Well, people might hide a thing because it’s not really their secret to tell,” Miss Marple replied calmly. “They might not have a choice in the matter.”

Three pairs of eyes stared questioningly at Miss Marple, but the old lady did not elaborate further.

“I only hope that Colonel Baratheon does not prove to be as troublesome to the village as Colonel Protheroe and Colonel Bantry were,” Miss Wetherby said. “These old military men. Trouble seems to follow them everywhere they go.”

“Colonel Baratheon is hardly _old_ ,” exclaimed Griselda. “He’s about Leonard’s age. Middle-age, yes, but not old, surely.”

Mrs. Price-Ridley looked surprised. “Really? The Colonel looks so much older and gaunter than the vicar. But I suppose he must have had a much harder life than Mr. Clement. Being a vicar in a calm, peaceful village like ours must be such an easy life compared to life in the army.”

Now Griselda was angry on her husband’s behalf. _At least Colonel Baratheon doesn’t have to spend his days ministering to nosy, sharp-tongued old ladies like you_ , she thought. But Len would be upset if she caused a scene with Mrs. Price-Ridley, so Griselda changed the subject. “In any case, what does Colonel Protheroe and Colonel Bantry have to do with anything?”

Mrs. Price-Ridley clucked. “My dear Mrs. Clement, surely you remember the trouble we went through when Colonel Protheroe was found murdered in the vicarage. The scandal! And all the talk and suspicion.”

Griselda remembered very well indeed, since it was in her home the Colonel’s body was found, and suspicion had been cast on her husband and even herself. Colonel Protheroe was a singularly unpleasant man, but surely he could not be blamed for his wife and her lover conspiring to murder him? Before Griselda could say anything, however, Mrs. Price-Ridley continued, “And that young woman’s body being found in Colonel Bantry’s library, dressed the way she was. Shameful!”

“But the police found the murderers, and it was proven that Colonel Bantry had nothing to do with it at all,” Griselda protested. “He didn’t even know the girl in question.”

That did not shake Mrs. Price-Ridley’s conviction in the least. “Still, there’s no smoke without fire, as they say. Or as _you_ would say, Jane, human nature being what it is, we never know, do we? Who would have thought? Colonel Bantry, of all people. And we have known the Bantrys a lot longer than the Baratheons after all.”

Apparently Mrs. Price-Ridley had either forgotten or had chosen to ignore the fact that Miss Marple was a close friend of Colonel Bantry’s wife Dolly, and had been the one to find the actual murderers in that case. Miss Marple said nothing, however. Griselda admired her restraint.

“What do you _really_ think about the Baratheons, Miss Marple?” Griselda asked, after Mrs. Price-Ridley and Miss Wetherby had gone home.

“I’m not sure I think anything in particular, Griselda dear,” Miss Marple replied, all innocence, her eyes twinkling.

“Come on, Miss Marple. Just between us?” Griselda wheedled. “Does he remind you of a cranky old uncle who used to hide his money under the mattress because he didn’t trust the bank or anyone else?”

Miss Marple gave Griselda a kindly but stern smile. “Now you’re making fun of me, like Raymond usually does.”

“Not at all, Miss Marple. Your observations are so often on the mark,” Griselda assured Miss Marple.

Miss Marple relented. “Well, Mrs. Baratheon reminds me of a headmistress I once had in school. A very capable woman, the kind who never seems to falter, no matter what the situation. You can count on them to take charge of any situation, to solve any problem, to achieve any task they set out to do, and to do it all without making unnecessary fuss or creating any drama or emotional scenes. Of course, with these people, sometimes we forget that they have their own problems, just like anyone else in this world. Why, it was such a _shock_ to us all when Miss Glenberry suddenly started crying one morning during assembly. Her fiance was in the Navy and his ship was missing, you see, and she had been waiting for any news for _weeks_ and _weeks_. And there we were, not knowing that she even _had_ a fiancé. She had seemed perfectly fine to us the whole time, just like she always was.”

Griselda was silent for a long while, thinking about the woman she talked to during that luncheon at Storm’s End. Had there been any sign of distress or sadness on Mrs. Baratheon’s face? Hard to tell, since Griselda hardly knew the woman.

“What about Colonel Baratheon, Miss Marple? Does _he_ remind you of anyone?”

“Not anyone in particular. But he reminds me a man who finally has what he always wanted, but doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s got it.”

“I was thinking about what Miss Wetherby said, about the two of them being such an unlikely match,” Griselda began. “You don’t suppose -” and here she paused, hesitating.

“Oh I don’t think it’s all that unlikely,” replied Miss Marple placidly.

**_< <<<<<<<>>>>>>>> _ **

The subjects of Griselda’s and Miss Marple’s scrutiny were sitting up in bed that night, reading. (A pamphlet on the history of St. Mary Mead for Asha, an article on country-versus-city taxation for Stannis.)

Asha tapped her husband’s shoulder. “Listen to this: _Two years ago, St. Mary Mead was rocked by the brutal murder of a churchwarden. His body was found in the library of the vicarage by the vicar_ _himself, and the investigation_ –“

“Is that history you’re reading, or scurrilous gossips and rumor-mongering?” Stannis growled. “And how can it be called history when it’s only two years in the past? I suppose the writer of that pamphlet is calling himself ‘ _a local historian’_ , when of course he’s nothing of the sort.”

Asha ignored the grumbling. “The vicar, Stannis. The one we met in Much Benham, remember? Mr. Clement. He must have been the one to find the body. Imagine. That poor man, it must have been such a shock to him.”

Stannis snickered. “He’s a vicar. I don’t suppose there’s anything much he hasn’t seen or heard when it comes to human cruelty and evil.”

“Still, it couldn’t have been a very pleasant experience. And his wife is so _young_. What a great shock and distress it would have been to Mrs. Clement.”

Stannis was startled. “His wife? When did you meet her?”

“She came around to collect for the Widows and Orphans Fund. I invited her to stay for lunch.”

Stannis regarded his wife carefully. “In the dining room?”

“No, of course not. It was a nice day, so we had lunch in the garden.”Asha paused. “Well, what was I supposed to do? She’s the vicar’s wife, and we haven’t shown our faces at church even once since we came here,” she continued, sounding defensive. “We really do have to go to the church fete at least. People might begin to suspect we’re hiding something, if –“

“We came here for peace and quiet,” Stannis reminded his wife. “We came here because no one knew us here.”

“I know.” Asha sighed. It was _her_ secret they were keeping after all; it was _her_ secret that caused them to abandon their normal life in London. “Stannis, I –“

“If you’re going to say “ _I’m sorry_ ” one more time, then I’m definitely not stepping foot at any church fete ever,” he declared.

“Not even for strawberry scones and peach pies?”

“I _hate_ peaches.”

“Well, I don’t remember you hating peaches when I was feeding them to you.” The memory of it could still made Asha laugh. Her sticky hand, his sticky cheek, their sticky … well, who would have thought the proper, staid Stannis Baratheon could –

The sound of moaning and keening wiped the memory off Asha’s mind. She got up swiftly, reaching for her coat.

“I’ll go,” Stannis said.

“No, I should go. It’s my –“

“You’ve both had a long day today.”

She let him go.

Tomorrow, Asha thought. Tomorrow would be a better day, a brighter day.

**_< <<<<<<<>>>>>>>> _ **

“The man was found dead in your bed, Colonel Baratheon. And you’re telling me that you have no clue who he could be?” Inspector Slack asked, not looking or sounding slack at all. Inspector Slack was all energy and intensity, all suspicious glares and condescending remarks directed to the Baratheons.

“As I’ve said, Inspector, I have never seen him before in my life.”

“What do you suppose he’s doing in your bed, naked and tied to the bedpost?”

“I don’t know.”

“And why were you not sleeping in your bed?”

“I slept in the guest room. I told you this already.”

“Every night, or only last night?”

“Pardon me?”

“Do you sleep in the guest room every night, or just last night?”

“Not every night, no.”

“So just last night, then? Why, if you don’t mind telling me, Colonel? Did you and your wife quarrel? Were you angry with her about anything?”

“No, we did not quarrel, Inspector. And no, I was not angry with my wife because of another man, if that’s what you are insinuating,” Stannis said through gritted teeth and clenched jaw. “I have bad dreams, some nights. On those nights, I sleep in the guest room so I would not disturb my wife’s sleep.”

“And yet … and this is what I don’t understand, Colonel Baratheon … you also claim that your wife was sleeping next to you in the guest room last night.”

“She came in the middle of the night, to check if the window is closed, if I have enough blanket. And then she stayed till morning.”

“How very convenient,” Inspector Slack sneered. “So I suppose she was nowhere in the master bedroom when Domeric Snow was brutally stabbed and murdered?”

“Domeric Snow? So you already know the identity of the dead man?”

“The victim’s wallet with his ration card was found under the pillow,” Inspector Slack replied, sounding triumphant.

“How very convenient,” Stannis said dryly. “You didn’t find his shoes, his socks, his pants. You didn’t find any article of clothing at all, in fact, and yet you found his wallet.”

Inspector Slack turned red. “What are you insinuating, Colonel Baratheon?”

Asha walked into the library before Stannis could give a reply. “You’re looking for me, Inspector?”

“The victim has been identified as Domeric Snow, Mrs. Baratheon. Do you know him at all?”

There was only a slight hesitation before Asha replied, “No, Inspector. I don’t know anyone called Domeric Snow.”

 


End file.
